For transcript and links to photos and resources, go here.

*Originally published in five parts …

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“Connection, the ability to feel connected, is why we’re here,” said Brené Brown in her TedTalk which had 1.5 million views as of 2013—and now over 24 million views since it came out 15 years ago. “But, when you ask people about connection, they tell you stories of dis-connection.”

In May of 2013, I went to a wedding in sunny California wine country. As the new Mr. and Mrs. walked up the aisle, I immediately snapped a photo with my iPhone, opened it in a photo editing app to add text and a fun filter, then posted on Instagram and Facebook as I tripped up the stairs en route to cocktail hour.

This supposedly instant post took 10 minutes of ignoring the friends I hadn’t seen in 12 years, so that our other high school friends (who hadn’t been invited) could vicariously “like” the moment.

While I’m not a social media or technology super user, I am a super connector. I love relationships, along with connecting people, stories, and ideas.

For instance, I used to have a dozen people on my iPhone’s Favorites list until somebody told me that feature is for who you call most, not a list of your best friends. Oops!

My 2013 Christmas card list had a hundred people, I have about 450 Facebook friends, 300 Instagram followers, and nearly 800 LinkedIn connections1, all of whom I’ve met in person. And these connections are only a fraction of the people I’ve met in person.

For reference: As of 2025, I sent Christmas cards to 20 people, and have 1,213 Facebook friends, 736 Instagram followers, 2,018 LinkedIn connections, 209 Substack subscribers, and no longer use Twitter/X or Google+.

Technology helps me maintain all of these relationships, especially long-distance friends; thus, phone, computer, and social media feel like a must. And yet throughout the spring since the wedding, I had more experiences of disconnection and felt increasingly unfulfilled by my online and offline interactions.

All the seemingly good communication habits of staying in touch by scrolling, texting, calling and emailing left me feeling empty. Scrolling through my Facebook or Instagram feeds of other people’s experiences was just as fulfilling as eating a bag of chips on an empty stomach.

The problem?

Too much energy out, too little energy in.

In her film, “Connected: An Autoblogography about Love, Death and Technology” (which I highly recommend), documentary director Tiffany Shlain argues that “connecting widely can come at the expense of connecting deeply.” The film speaks to people’s sense of being both overwhelmed by the quantity of connections facilitated by technology and underwhelmed with the quality of those connections.

Thus, technology poses conflicting priorities of staying connected versus actually being connected. So how do we sustain quality connections? It may have less to do with depth and more to do with presence.

At that wedding in May, while everybody else was apparently on the dance floor, I was checking the 30+ likes the ceremony photo already had on Facebook. A hand waved in front of my screen, and I looked up to see a long-lost high school friend.

“Get off your phone, Jules,” he said.

I looked around to see that I was the only one sitting at a table and not dancing. There was a serious disconnect going on.

Inspired by reading Baratunde Thurston’s July/August Fast Company cover story—in print, not online—I decided to officially disconnect. Since I wasn’t working, it seemed like a perfect time to experiment. I didn’t follow his guides for how to unplug, but came up with my own combo “Digital Detox & Relationship Reset Plan.”

The goal: Give my “gadgets a secular Sabbath; reveling in friendships and conversation of a kind that Facebook doesn’t do; being thickly in one place, not thinly everywhere,” as Anand Giridharadas described in his January 25, 2013 The New York Times article, “Exploring New York, Unplugged and on Foot.”

Giridharadas does this one day a month. Thurston unplugged for 25 days. I decided to disconnect for one whole month, starting that very next day: July 19 to August 19, 2013.

What I didn’t do

• Make an announcement of my absence

• Check newsfeed or post on social media (Facebook, Twitter, Google+, Instagram, LinkedIn), except to fulfill my PRSA Oregon board commitments

• Communicate much with technology—instant messaging (IM), text, calls, emails

• Reach out to people to make plans

What I did do

• Kept using my phone as a phone, camera, and watch

• Turned off all app notifications

• Only used email for job search or volunteer commitments

• Internet searches (Yes, it’s a gray area!)

What I learned

My digital detox was not as dramatic and unplugged as Thurston’s, and some might argue not actually unplugging since I continued to use my computer and phone. But, I still found the experiment quite personally enlightening, especially when I found myself cheating. For example, one day I texted a friend to grab happy hour that night, thus breaking the rule of not reaching out to make plans with friends. When he wasn’t available, I texted two other people who weren’t available either. I was bummed—and apparently lonely. Aha!

I learned some interesting things about how much we fill our emotional needs through socializing—both in person and online—many of which can not actually be filled by others from outside of ourselves.

Things that I had suspected became incredibly clear:

• Digital consumption encourages emotional snacking instead of the nourishment of a deep connection. Checking Facebook’s News Feed is like consuming the empty calories of junk food; it fills the time, but do you really know that person from high school who now lives in Kentucky any better? Are you ever going to have an actual conversation with them again? Did you give the grocery clerk checking you out this much attention?

• Attention is a two-way street. Relating is equal parts sharing, expressing, inviting and listening, empathizing, showing up. Communicating recognition, appreciation, or gratitude to others feels especially good because they get to simply receive and requires no energy in return.

• Loneliness is draining, solitude is invigorating. While we’re social creatures, we don’t have to socialize to feel connected to the world. In fact, connecting deeply within ourselves, and often something much bigger than ourselves, such as meditating, praying, or being engrossed in a hobby, is just as important as connecting to others. Maybe more important!

• Immediacy is overrated. Except in true crises or time-sensitive situations like being 30 minutes late to pick someone up, waiting hours or a day or even a week to respond or share news won’t change how people have been living their lives in the interim.

• There is no waiting. As Eckart Tolle writes in The Power of Now, waiting in line is standing in line, waiting at a stop light is being in a vehicle, walking down the street is well, walking down the street. None of these are a “waste of time” that needs to be filled by being on our phones. They are simply opportunities for presence.

These insights sparked more questions, such as: Is it possible to have a deep connection when it’s mediated by a screen? Did anybody even notice that I was “off” social or hadn’t reached out? Did it even matter?

About halfway through my experiment, I received a letter in the mail from one of my aunts with a pleasant update on life. About a week later, I got a very concerned call from the same aunt. In her voicemail, she wanted to know why I hadn’t been on Facebook lately and if I had “fallen off the face of the earth.” I called her back to reassure her that I was alive and would be back posting photos on Facebook in a little over a week.

I’ve been back in action for several weeks now, posting on social media, sending email, using the internet, and initiating plans to hang out in person. While it’s hard to tell from talking to me in person or looking at my social feeds since Aug. 19, there are tons of ways that I feel the detox has reset my relationships—both with my devices and my actual friends.

What am I doing differently?

• Making sure my actions and choices energize me or fill me up. And occasionally doing super draining stuff that just has to be done.

• Focusing on connecting with people in my “village”, i.e., people who live within a couple of miles from me.

• Doing more things I love doing and people love receiving, such as sending cards and postcards, and giving hugs.

• Figuring out what I actually need from technology and then using it only for that purpose—to enhance my life, not detract from it.

• Engaging more in social media and the internet as I aspire to in person, i.e.: trying to talk or share less and listen or comment more.

• Use my phone as a tool for my convenience, such as leaving it at home sometimes, answering or replying when it’s the right time for me, and checking apps when I need something (I still haven’t turned almost any of my notifications back on).

My experiment reminded me of what true connection feels like—using my senses more than my mind—which makes me wonder: Is the ultimate answer to all of this digital discomfort to go off the grid and seriously disconnect?

Do we have to unplug all of our devices and let their batteries run out in hopes of charging up our own?

A few years ago, I would have said, “Sure, back to nature we go!”

But, that was before I was convinced to join social media, completed my graduate program in communications, read Groundswell and worked at digital marketing agencies. I adapted from a self-proclaimed Luddite to a social media butterfly, seeing the value in digital technology.

As Nick Bilton wrote in his Sept. 1, 2013, post “Disruptions: More Connected, Yet More Alone” for The New York Times Bits Tech Blog: “…like it or not, experiencing life through a four-inch screen could be the new norm. Or not.”

Bilton’s post brings perspective that digital distraction as we know it is a temporary problem until societal norms kick in to regulate behavior. Shlain’s documentary film, Thurston’s Fast Company cover story and Charlene deGuzman’s “I Forgot My Phone” video show that popular culture critique is trying to keep pace with new technology and keep us in check.

“Yes, society is changing, but the iPhone is only really six years old, and those changes aren’t set in place,” said Mathias Crawford, a researcher in human-computer interactions and communications at Stanford University, as quoted by Bilton.

Technology is dynamic, and so are our relationships, especially if we keep questioning usefulness and intentionality while testing our own boundaries and discipline—online and in person.

Shlain and others might be onto something with the idea that technology may well be the answer, as opposed to just the problem. Yet, like many new, exciting things—falling in love comes to mind—we’re overindulging in the internet and smartphones, especially.

I believe we can use this World Wide Web to learn new things, expand our perspectives, and interact with people to more deeply connect to the beautiful world wide web of life we inhabit.

But first, we may need to disconnect to reconnect.

May you feel more energy in than out this week.

Love,

Jules

*Originally published in five parts during Sept. 2013 on my previous blog (www.oregonintegrity.wordpress.com) and slightly edited for Substack.

For transcript and links to photos and resources, go here.

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Yes, we are on the cusp of a new year, yet none of our crises will disappear when the clock strikes 12:01 a.m. on New Year’s Day. And none of them are actually related to that year either, but confining uncontrollable events to a timeframe is an easier way to manage stress and history. Or so it seems.

Just like denial seems easier. And ignoring seems easier.

Until it’s not.

Until we’re in a precarious position: Deep in a crisis without even knowing it.

The defining moment of this year for me was one of the most subtle wake-up calls I’ve experienced.

I walked outside after my lunch and sat down on the cement porch, dangling my bare feet off the edge. It was cold and uncomfortable, but it kept me alert. I took in the eery stillness of the neighborhood. As if it was just another weekday.

It was unusually quiet outside. No cars racing toward the busy intersection a block and a half down the street. No walkers briskly passing by, deep in conversation. No wind through the still bare trees. Spring had barely sprung, and everyone barely knew what had just begun. During those first few weeks of Shelter-in-Place, people were at home waiting. Waiting for it to pass, as if it were just a storm.

A brief “unprecedented” interruption of what we thought was normal life. Instead of an inevitable crisis at worst, a disruptive catalyst at best.

As I sat there, my questions and thoughts began to organize themselves in the quiet nothingness, just like when I hike in the forest or walk along the beach. After a weekend of internet research, I digested the information I had gathered from the news and attempted to make sense of it.

Only a few weeks into the pandemic and it was clear: The world was in a crisis. Surprisingly, we had been for months. Meanwhile, we went about our lives business-as-usual.

• The virus was actually reported in December 2019.

• I went on a retreat at a house with 25 women during the last weekend of February 2020. Oregon’s first COVID-19 case was reported on February 28.

• Oregon’s State of Emergency was declared on March 8. I went to work with thousands of people until March 13.

• The economists said a recession was unlikely and not to worry until “people stopped getting haircuts.” Well, the barbershops had already closed.

Yet, as I looked around the neighborhood, everything looked the same as before. The grass continued growing, the clouds coasted overhead, a bird chirped from afar—the world seemed okay. But, I knew it wasn’t. I knew the threat was real, I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t feel it—no cortisol, no fear.

This is when the epiphany hit: How was this invisible viral threat any different than the climate crisis we have been complacently living amidst my entire life, an entire century?

It wasn’t.

Insert systemic racism, wealth inequality, the current presidency. The world seemed okay. But it wasn’t.

The evidence was clear. Even if I didn’t personally see it, feel it, in my world.

Did I have the courage to pay attention and act accordingly?

I lost my naivete that day. But, I didn’t lose my faith.

If anything, this epiphany helped orient me for the rest of the year. I stayed grounded in reality, in responsibility, in service, in sacrifice. I was activated by the truth beyond what I could see and beyond what directly touched my life. To trust what is unseen, but known. To put the greater good first. To contribute, not to extract.

We can transcend this idea of a static normal and live in harmony with dynamic nature. I know we can.

This is the next level. Ironically, growing my personal threshold for vulnerability over the last few years allowed me to feel compassion for everyone else.

This constant, collective vulnerability—not just some of us, all of us—is the opening.

To more experience, deeper wisdom, and better judgment.

To change spurred by truth.

To adaptability.

To being humble.

To being human.

May you carry the truth forward this week.

Love,
Jules

P.S. If you’re curious to do your own end-of-year reflecting, you might enjoy “A Year in Review” guide from Jill Knouse, one of my all-time favorite yoga teachers, listening to one of my favorite podcasts, The Next Right Thing by Emily P. Freeman, Episode 337: “How to Engage the Quiet,” or listen…

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A process that does not happen overnight—between one sunset and one sunrise—but slowly over time and with space. Little by little, day by day, minute by added minute.

Because it is a threshold.

Not the small space of a doorway between one room and the next, but a magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain phenomenon or condition to occur. In other words, a long crossing over between what was and what will be. Hence, taking an entire season. If not, an entire growth cycle of four seasons.

For several years now, I have started my new year on the spring equinox (instead of Jan. 1) as one of many small ways to live in harmony with nature as I track my own growth. At this time of year, with three seasons complete since I planted my seed of intention for this cycle of growth—practicing presence—I start to wonder:

• How much have I grown?

• Have I learned everything I need to?

• Am I ready to integrate this growth into the deepest parts of my being?

• And, what might I need to learn next?

As I sit here in a bustling coffee shop/bakery/market/bar just blocks from my new apartment in Taos, NM, yet reminiscent of my old favorites—Tealuxe in Boston, Mass., Crema in Portland, Ore., or Lone Pine Roasters in Bend, Ore.—I am struck by how much I have grown. The subtle and the profound: Sipping a matcha green tea instead of sencha, transporting my whole life across four states to start anew. The skills of going with the flow, adaptation, and starting over already developed during the course of many transitions; what is new is the patience. Setting the intention to move a year ago and then paying close attention to how life was unfolding until it was time.

Of course, there is more to learn about patience, that elusive capacity to accept and tolerate time and space with a sense of calm and peaceful equanimity. Especially being fully present in the letting go that is required while moving on. In the six weeks between departing Oregon and landing in New Mexico this fall, I journaled, sketched, and listened to The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life by Suleika Jaouad about journaling while navigating her journey with cancer.

“I kept a journal for as long as I can remember…to traverse the liminal space between no longer and not yet,” Jaouad wrote. “My modus operandi became this: To trust and find ways to delight in the mystery of how things unfold even if it’s not what you had planned, even if it’s far from ideal. And to believe that facing the thing you fear brings you exactly what you need.”

And so, each day I stayed in Colorado, I scrolled through Zillow and Craigslist apartment posts and repeated a friend’s mantra: This, or something better. Something would come through if I stayed patient with the process; present with what was showing up today.

On Nov. 3, 2025, the Universe emailed to remind me: “For as long as a dream lives inside of you, Jules, there’s a plan for its time in space. Trust me, The Universe”

“P.S. OK, Jules? I got you.”

Sure enough, later that week, I got the call back about an available one-bedroom apartment within my price range nestled in the historic Taos District, just a few blocks from the plaza to the west and a few acres from preserved Pueblo lands to the east. As I settle into my new home this winter, I am already integrating this growth into the deepest parts of my being. There is no rush to unpack, to make friends, to build community, to be busy. That will unfold. My winter bucket list is short, my schedule is spacious, and my commitments are intentionally light so that I may continue to pay close attention during this new beginning.

In his book of lyrical essays, The Book of Delights, poet Ross Gay notices how the first day of winter represents a kind of deepening, a kind of engagement with an interior, out of which we will emerge, to return to again, to emerge again, ad infinitum.

Just like the cycle of growth, the cycle of seasons, the turning of time and space.

Right now, we are crossing many thresholds, from fall to winter, from December to January, from 2025 to 2026. It is a time to be gentle with ourselves—our bodies, our minds, our hearts, our spirits—and each other.

To slow down, turn inward, and sit with our experiences further as the days grow longer and the nights get shorter.

To savor these extra minutes and give ourselves even more buffer.

To notice more of what’s around us.

To embrace the cold or the wet or the unseasonable warmth for what it is.

May you give yourself and others more time and space this week.

Love,

Jules

Read the rest of this year’s seasonal reflections: Spring Equinox 2025 | Summer Solstice 2025 | Fall Equinox 2025

P.S. If you’re curious to do your own end-of-year reflecting, you might enjoy “A Year in Review” guide from Jill Knouse, one of my all-time favorite yoga teachers, listening to one of my favorite podcasts, The Next Right Thing by Emily P. Freeman, Episode 337: “How to Engage the Quiet,” or listening to this year’s PRESENCE playlist of current favorite songs:

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The sadness of my last shift at REI, followed by a very sweet blessing from my womxn’s spiritual group in Bend. A very productive day packing and last run to Mirror Pond before my send off party, followed by a very unproductive day in bed recovering from too much fun. The final push earlier that day, when six friends helped me finish packing and very carefully load up the 6’ x 12’ U-Haul rental trailer attached to my friend’s Ford pickup truck, because my car didn’t have enough towing capacity, as well as pack up my CR-V. The four hours of loading, followed by nine hours of driving. And, of course, the tears when I said goodbye to my friends, when we drove out of Bend, and especially when we drove over the bridge from Oregon into Idaho.

When I finally crossed the river from this to that—from my roots in Oregon to my next adventure in New Mexico.

My body was too overwhelmed, overstimulated, and exhausted to sleep. It was too much. It wasn’t just from that day, but a month of goodbyes and a year of letting go. There was so much to metabolize. I had a hunch this night would be hard—and even harder had I been alone—so it was reassuring to look out the car window and see my friend’s big, black truck parked next to me under the big, black sky.

Just after sunrise the next morning, my friend was already making tea on his tailgate after a sound night of sleep in his truck bed. I crawled out of my trunk looking like a drowned rat. In fact, he said I looked even worse than when I was still hungover at 2 p.m. the day after my send off party when he dropped off the U-Haul. It was clear that I needed a longer stop to rest and recover that night versus powering through two more long days of driving per our original itinerary.

It wasn’t just that I needed to sleep in a real bed.

I knew I needed to be nourished.

Even though my friend didn’t want to stop in Salt Lake City, Utah, longer than lunch, he reluctantly agreed to stay the night. Like on many previous trips or climbs, our best laid plans pivoted. Now, our adventure had begun.

After a spring fling with this cute climber when he first came through Oregon in 2023, our lives kept crossing paths, but we were heading in different directions. We lost touch until he moved to Bend last winter and quickly became one of my primary climbing/skiing/adventure partners at Bend Rock Gym, Smith Rock State Park and Mt. Bachelor, summiting Three Fingered Jack and Mount Washington together, and more.

At this point, we’ve been through inclement weather, falls and injuries, cruxes and summits, fears and anxiety, misunderstandings and disagreements, patience and problem solving, and all the quirks of teamwork in the wild or on the road. Hence why he was at the top of my list for this road trip when I realized that I didn’t want to do it alone, and later learned that I actually couldn’t do it on my own. His trailer hitch sealed the deal.

This was my journey, but I needed a lot of support.

After another four hours on the road, we rolled up to my brother-in-law’s childhood home near Big Cottonwood Canyon on the southern outskirts of Salt Lake City, around lunchtime. My sister and her husband started dating when I was 17, so I’ve known his parents for most of my life. I’ve stayed at their home many times since my first solo road trip in 2008, including my last trek back to Oregon two years ago.

After big hugs and introductions, we saw that the table was already set with sandwiches from the local deli. We admired the sprawling view of the mountains across the valley and toured the terraced gardens and koi pond. We took showers and found cozy corners for naps. I rocked in the hammock as the breeze through the windchimes and the birds serenaded me in my own private sound bath.

After a short hike nearby to Donut Falls, we ate a delicious, homemade Filipino dinner and Marie Calendar’s chocolate cream pie for dessert, followed by a long soak in their hot tub. When I finally headed to bed in the guest room and saw the “Live, Laugh, Love” throw pillow—a phrase that always reminds me of my Mom—lying on the thick comforter over the firm bed, my heart smiled.

I knew this was the right choice. I was exactly where I needed to be. I woke up the next morning a new woman and ready for the second half of our journey.

See fun photos from our road trip on Instagram.

After another six hours on the road, including a couple of stops to pee and for gas and a late lunch in a parking lot, there was still enough daylight left for a quiet and stunning hike through the Monument Canyon Loop in Colorado National Monument as recommended by a Bend climbing buddy. Just like on other road trips, it felt like a time warp, reminding me of past road trips through Grand Junction, CO, in 2008 and Canyonlands National Park in 2022 while also transporting me into the future, envisioning myself soon living in a landscape of epic rock faces, scraggly windblown trees, and muddy rivulets.

We continued for a couple of hours to the Flat Top-Peach Valley BLM Campground near Montrose, CO, where we were the only campers under the chilly mid-October night sky. With a few twinkle lights, chairs, and a cooler as a table, the area between the tailgate and the trailer became a sweet little kitchen for cooking dinner and a living room for playing Skip-Bo until the wind picked up and moved our game into the back of my car.

There was plenty of room because this time, I took everything out—the crates of plants, tupperware of fragile dishware, bins of camping gear, cooler, etc.—to set up my Princess-And-The-Pea bed, including yoga mat, foam sleeping pad, insulated sleeping pad, fleece blanket, sleeping bag, and another fleece blanket in the hopes of getting four to five hours of sleep.

It was our last day on the road with only five hours of driving to go, so we took our time. Sitting there in the garden of a cute little coffeehouse in Montrose, sipping my green tea and writing a few postcards beneath the shade of a large willow tree with branches swaying in the warm breeze and birds chirping overhead, I felt déjà vu. I looked up at my friend, who was checking emails on his computer, and smiled.

I knew I hadn’t been here before but this was exactly the kind of moment I usually enjoyed while traveling on my own. But, I wasn’t this time. Just like hiring a personal coach six months earlier to help with my transition, I was so grateful to have company on this journey.

Grateful to receive so much support in such a vulnerable process—the way I had shown up for so many of my friends in the past. Like the plaque on the nearby bench that I noticed coming back from the bathroom, “In loving memory of Gloria Hudson, who always had time for tea with friends.”

My heart was full.

I could’ve basked there all day. But we were in the home stretch. After a pit stop at my friend’s favorite local coffee roastery, we headed southwest toward our destination.

Incorporated in 1886, La Veta, CO, is an old mining and timber town with a population of 862 (as of the 2020 United States census), which made it too small for a grocery store, but big enough for a gas station. I’d been there several times already to visit one of my best friends—during both of my cross-country roadtrips in 2022, as well as my road trip in 2023.

In fact, I discovered Taos, NM, because I was on my way to La Veta.

We made pit stops for groceries and gas in nearby Alamosa, CO, before rolling up to my best friend’s rental house around 5 p.m. After a quick unload and rinse off, we hopped into their electric truck and headed into town for a celebratory toast at the brewery and a hot meal after our 25-hour drive across Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and Colorado. It was luxurious to sleep on my own mattress again, even if it was on the floor. The next morning, I unloaded the rest of my stuff into the middle of the garage so we could return the U-Haul that afternoon.

Even though I’ve downsized countless times and own a fraction of what I used to, it was still so much stuff. And every corner of the garage was already piled high with the landlord’s stuff, making it hard to imagine how to organize my belongings so that they were out of the way, but still accessible, since there were still five weeks before my job at Taos Ski Valley started around Thanksgiving. What did I need to unpack? How long was I even staying before I found a place and finished the move to Taos?

I had arrived for now, but the journey was still unfolding. I realized that I wasn’t quite ready to be on my own.

When I walked back into the house with my eyes wide and shoulders sagging with overwhelm, my friend came into the room, sat down, and said, I’ve got a question for you. So, I sat down too. He shared great news about landing some interviews the following week and asked if he could stay five more days to prepare.

Of course, stay as long as you need.

As if the Universe was still providing everything we needed, right when we needed it.

May you ask for what you need this week.

Love,

Jules

P.S. If you’d like to help out with gas via Venmo (@j3williams), I’d deeply appreciate it! Between gas for the truck and CR-V, plus the U-Haul trailer rentals, this move cost about $1,300. 😳

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My climbing partner towed a 6’ x 12’ U-Haul rental trailer with his Ford pickup truck and I followed in my new Honda CR-V for four days, as we caravaned across Oregon, Idaho, and Utah to Colorado, where I’m staying with one of my best friends for a few weeks while I look for housing in Taos, New Mexico, before my hotel concierge job at Taos Ski Valley starts around Thanksgiving for the winter season.

I keep believing the journey is linear—from this to that through a beginning, middle and end—but, of course, it’s not. It spirals. It puts us where we need to be when we need to be there, whether we like it or not.

For instance, initially, I was not happy to be back in Bend two years ago because I really wanted to be in Taos. It was my favorite small town during my cross-country travels the previous year, and where I felt like I was supposed to be. But, I didn’t get the job there, and I did get two jobs in Bend.

Like earlier that year when I was living nearby in Sisters, Ore., and visited friends in Bend, it felt too big, too noisy, too developed, too much concrete, too perfect. And it is home to so many special mountains, rivers, and places, close friends and kindred communities, who I grew to appreciate more every day once I embraced my reality after that first winter season: Yes, I still dreamed of Taos, but it wasn’t the right time to move yet while I was healing a broken leg. I still longed for intimate, quiet, natural, and wild. But, if this was where I was supposed to be right now, then by golly, I would go all in.

I thrived.

And, every time I crossed the bumpy, wooden 100-year-old Mirror Pond bridge over the Deschutes River—just a few blocks from my duplex at the heart of the original town, so I walked, biked, and ran there often—it felt like a metaphor for my life. Like I was still in transition—that tender in-between space of moving from this to that—rooted in Oregon, but still seeing myself in New Mexico.

Bend felt like a bridge.

Similar to how living in upstate New York was a very long bridge between moving away from my hometown of Portland, before I landed in Central Oregon.

Except this was a bridge that I needed to keep going back and forth over until I was ready to be on the other side. Impatiently trusting the process because it felt like there was so much that still needed attention, so much that needed to be explored, so much that needed to be metabolized and healed here before moving on.

According to William Bridges, author of Managing Transitions: Making the Most of Change—a change management book that I borrowed from my parents’ library 20+ years ago and have yet to return—not only is there a beginning, a middle and an end to our experiences, but there is indeed a beginning of the end, just like there is a start even before the beginning.

“The starting point for transition is not the outcome but the ending that you will have to make to leave the old situation behind…psychological transition depends on letting go of the old reality and the old identity you had before the change took place,” wrote Bridges (ironically named, if you ask me!).

A new beginning only happens once we fully accept the new reality. Thus, letting go of the old reality allows us to fully embrace the change. This is what we call “closure.” But, we can not begin until we’re ready. Just like we can not feel closure until we’re ready.

Perhaps this is why we get stuck in the middle so often?

See photos of my transition inspiration on Instagram.

The letting go finally started at the end of the summer as I hiked around Mount Hood by myself—embracing revelations about my family of origin and my identity, and starting to envision a path forward. In mid-October, coming into another tiring winter working nights at the mountain and weekends at REI, I heard my gut quietly telling me it was time to move forward. Not right now, but within a year. Get ready.

Set the intention, then get out of the way.

The Way knows the way.

In February, when I drove up to Portland to trade in my little city car for an all-wheel drive SUV, I cried for the first hour, which struck me as an overreaction. Yes, it was a big deal to part ways with my car of 15 years, but why was I so sad?

Because I wasn’t just letting go of my car.

I was letting go of everything.

The next day, I drove to the Oregon Coast to attend my annual spiritual women’s group retreat, and the first thing I did was wade into the waves to ask Grandmother Ocean for her guidance and blessing. After a lifetime of living by her side, it was still hard to envision myself inland so far away. In the next wave, after I tossed my chocolate offering to her, she threw something at my feet. It hurt, but I laughed when I picked it up. Huh, the rock sure looked like the Taos Mountains to me!

In my journal, I wrote:

“As of Spring Equinox in March 2025, I anticipate a six-month lead time before I relocate from Oregon, my place of origin, to New Mexico, where my heart is called to live, work, create, connect, and be in community with other artsy, outdoorsy, spiritual folks right now.”

On the drive back to Bend, I envisioned this phase and knew I didn’t want to do it alone. So, I reached out to my dear friend and personal coach, Ryan Reichert-Estes, to ask for help. We designed six months of coaching with video chats every two weeks for a quick check-in. On our first call, we agreed that I needed to keep my heart open to all options, including staying in Bend, while staying the course toward my intention.

I created a Google Doc to track our calls, my discernment “homework,” and my progress in between sessions, such as setting Zillow alerts on housing in Taos. It didn’t feel like there was much momentum during the spring, and I started to have cold feet. To be fair, I was traveling a lot—meeting my bestie’s baby in Denver, attending another bestie’s Mom’s funeral near Philadelphia, visiting my Dad post-surgery—and started elevation training for the next mountaineering season—a passion driven by the desire for a deeper connection to my parents and myself.

Then, I felt the shift.

A few days after summer solstice, I randomly rode my bike past my late mentor’s house in Bend—who passed away two years ago—and saw a huge moving van parked outside the house that I had visited so many times since they built it in 2013. I rolled up to the driveway where her husband was standing in the open garage directing the movers as they finished loading the last few boxes. After a long hug, I followed him through the first floor of the empty house. We both held back tears as we briefly chatted. Then, I said farewell and hopped back on my bike. I heard a whisper from within: “It’s time for you to go too.”

I cried the whole ride back to the duplex.

As they say: “Where there is deep grief, there was great love.”

With the strong possibility this was my last summer in Bend, I aligned my priorities for less work and more adventures—climbing mountains, exploring Central Oregon, seeing family and close friends— and ironically put a hold on my job and housing search until Labor Day.

It was different than when I left Oregon in 2022. Instead of planning a “Best of Oregon tour,” I organically, yet intentionally, visited favorite places throughout the summer. I’d already said goodbye to Manzanita and Portland earlier in the year, so I found opportunities to visit Breitenbush Hot Springs near Central Oregon; Mount Hood, Hood River & White Salmon in the Columbia River Gorge; Yachats at the Oregon Coast; Mt. Bachelor; and Smith Rock State Park. The last goodbye was Bend.

As soon as I returned from the East Coast the day after Labor Day, the Universe held me to my promise. Things quickly fell into place for a fresh start this fall, and I submitted my official 30-day notice of departure at the duplex and at REI on Sept. 15, 2025.

It felt like the beginning of the end. But it wasn’t. The ending started at least a year earlier when I began letting go. This was the start of the beginning.

Who’s to say that all of this wouldn’t have happened anyway without my intentionality? But setting my intention, listening to my intuition, and thus having a deep knowing of what was coming enabled me to be so much more present and grateful for everything I was receiving.

Every day felt like a gift. I organically, yet intentionally, continued saying goodbye to all the people and places that had been a part of my day-to-day and spending as much time as possible with my favorites.

Being very aware of the winding down made me even more mindful and thus more open to deeper connection. For instance, when I told my favorite yoga teacher about my upcoming departure to Taos, I finally asked a question about her bio on the yoga studio website that I’d been curious about since I started. She shared openly—including about climbing Mount Everest 20 years ago!—with some pearls of wisdom and questions about my own journey before we shared a long hug. I was amazed. I had lain out my mat at the front of class right next to hers almost every week for the past two years, and I was just now learning her story. As if this was just the beginning of our friendship.

I also noticed so much serendipity. Like the day I walked into Lone Pine Roasters, where I used to write my newsletters, and the only seat available was right next to my 85-year-old friend (and newsletter reader), whom I’d met at that very coffee shop a couple of years ago. Per usual, he treated me to a pot of tea and a waffle while we caught up on life. Even though we hugged goodbye that day, he still dropped by my send off party for one more long hug.

I hold them to me
like treasure, these slender
chapters, charged as they are
with beauty, hold them to me
even as I practice letting you go.
—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, The Holding

On my last run over Mirror Pond a few hours before my send off party, I stopped in the middle of the bumpy, wooden 100-year-old bridge over the Deschutes River, and watched the water steadily flow beneath me. Perhaps this bridge was not the metaphor for my life. Yes, I was in the tender in-between space of moving from this to that while I lived here, but this bridge—and Bend, and Oregon—had been my sturdy support system during my long transition.

My life was more like this water.

Here now, but constantly flowing.

Spiraling in its journey through time and space, “[Water] exists in a state of constant change, taking part in cycles that have no beginning and no end.”1

May you practice letting go this week.

Love,

Jules

Related Posts: 03.13.2023 Follow Your Life (audio) | 12.30.2024 Bloom Where You’re Planted (audio)

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Regardless, we are in the middle—halfway through the cycle of seasons.

For many years now, I start the new year on the Spring Equinox in March as one of many small ways to live in harmony with nature. I focus on a word for the next cycle of growth with the intention of mastery through deep exploration.

Presence is my word for this year.

Listen to this year’s PRESENCE playlist on Spotify.

This spring, I practiced everything I’ve learned about mindfulness and being present: Showing up for my friends and family, listening to my body, following my energy, and paying close attention to my surroundings. I was just scratching the surface. I sensed the purest kind of presence would be: No plans, no calendar, no To Do lists, less stuff and mementos, and even fewer goals, passions, and dreams. Still living life to the fullest, but one moment, day, week, season at a time. Living for now, not the future.

While working with my personal coach on our bi-weekly calls, I realized I was stressing myself out trying to continue writing a book, to add job and housing searches, while also making the most of summer and the mountaineering season. It was too much to try to do it all. The hectic spring had built up my stamina for abundance—being able to receive it and appreciate it—but coming into this summer, I actually wanted to do less so that I could really be here now.

I stopped writing the book. After working with a writing coach and making a lot of headway during the fall and winter, I realized that, unlike Substack, where I can write and edit, then immediately send and get feedback, I did not enjoy the complexity, perfectionism, and tediousness of concepting, outlining, editing, revising, rewriting, and never being done.

I paused the search. Even though I have barely been making ends meet, even though housemates at the duplex have been moving in and out like a revolving door, even though my gut knew this wasn’t sustainable, I would set the future aside until after Labor Day when I returned from my East Coast trip.

I focused on climbing, exploring, and traveling. Which, of course, was a lot by itself. Perhaps even three summers’ worth of adventures folded into one! Living life to the fullest, often being tired and something always hurting, yet miraculously not succumbing to any of the colds, flus, or COVID-19 going around, especially while working in retail.

For the first time in two years, I didn’t work on Fridays or Saturdays—or on Tuesdays for Sabbath—so I could be available for adventuring with my service industry and corporate friends. In between REI’s big, exhausting sales, there were many weeks when I was only scheduled for a couple of shifts. Sometimes, I picked up hours, but most weeks, I seized the summer and learned so much more about presence.

So this is everything I was up to when there wasn’t as much News from Jules in your inbox the past few months!

See beautiful photos and the story of each climb on Instagram.

After pre-season elevation training all spring and kicking off the summer by hiking the 30-mile Deschutes River Trail (DRT), it was now officially mountaineering season. I started watching the mountain weather forecast like a hawk for a good weather window. It’s a specific kind of presence: Only concentrating on the next climbing objective, one climb at a time. My recipe for success has been: Optimizing for ideal weather, being healthy and in good shape, picking strong climbing partners with the right skill sets and tons of stoke, effective packing and planning, attempting achievable peaks, and getting really lucky.

Within a week of the DRT, I was standing on the first (and probably hardest) summit of my four Cascade Mountain objectives for the season, including Three-Fingered Jack, Diamond Peak, Mount Bachelor, and Mount Washington. In between climbs, I juggled maintenance training and recovery, including Healing Flow yoga classes, bike commuting, and walking at work, plus taking a couple of weeks completely off—literally at sea level—while traveling on the East Coast. As the fates would have it, just a day after I returned, my climbing partner and I seized the window before an incoming storm front and made it to the top of my fourth and final objective. I love completion, so it has been deeply satisfying to succeed at all of these attempts. To do what I set out to do.

Four out of four: My most successful climbing season yet.

These were my favorite days of the summer. Every climb was special—amazing partners, gorgeous views, and so many unforgettable moments. After every summit, I was eager for the next one. I can’t do them justice in this recap. They are each their own story.

While the accomplishment of these peak experiences felt great, what felt amazing this year was the sense of community. For instance, having a huge pool of friends to train and climb with. REI co-workers asking each week: What’s next? and when customers wanted to know about conditions, sending them my way. Sharing gear and beta before a climb, then debriefing afterwards—in person, over the phone, via text or on Discord, Strava, and Instagram. What I already had in Portland, I finally had in Bend.

See fun photos from this summer on Instagram.

This was my third summer in Central Oregon, and I still had a surprisingly long bucket list of new places to explore, like downtown Redmond, just 20 minutes away, but I had only ever driven through, and things I hadn’t done yet, like my first rodeo. And so, I filled my days off with being a tourist—often solo and sometimes with local friends. I explored the Crooked River Roundup, Dee Observatory, the Redmond Caves, Petersen Rock Garden & Museum, Cline Falls, River Run Taproom (my new favorite!), the movie theater at McMenamin’s Old St. Francis School, and the Zip-line at Mt. Bachelor.

And, of course, all the Bend summer favorites: including a dawn dance party, floating the river, attending a concert at Hayden Homes Amphitheater, Fourth of July fireworks on Pilot Butte, playing with the kids at the fancy pool in Sunriver, slip-and-slide at Riverbend Park, soaking and sauna at Juniper Swim & Fitness Center, picnics listening to concerts from the bluff, ocean rolls from Sparrow Bakery, book club in Drake Park, guiding river walks on the DRT, beers and foodcarts at the Barn in Sisters, the Bite in Tumalo, Bend Brewing, GoodLife Brewing, Silvermoon Brewing, Funky Fauna Artisan Ales, Crux Brewery, McMenamins Brewery, and I’m probably forgetting a few.

Plus, all the maintenance training hikes at Pilot Butte, Black Crater, Upper Chush Falls, Umbrella Falls & Sahale Falls, Angel’s Rest, Horizon Hill, Broken Hand, Riley Ranch Nature Preserve, and Lava Butte. Sometimes, even doing double-headers—yes, two hikes in one day—for the necessary mileage and elevation gain. All possible due to the surprisingly mild and short wildfire season, which I intentionally missed the worst of while traveling back East, allowing me to be outside so much more than the past two summers.

All the while, I was meeting even more new people here, while hanging out with my local friends, and seeing close friends passing through town, as well as visiting with so many long-time friends and family during my trips.

It was a reminder that it doesn’t matter if I’m traveling internationally or walking around my neighborhood; exploration amplifies my ability to be present. I can’t help it! What’s around this corner, I wonder? Oh wow, look at this!

See photos visiting family and friends on Instagram.

Since my climbs were intensive, all-day adventures that only lasted four days of the summer, and my exploring was squeezed into days off, there was still plenty of time to travel to visit my family and favorite places. I spent a day with my Spiritual Director at Breitenbush Hot Springs, a day at Mount Hood, a weekend in the Columbia River Gorge with my immediate family, as well as celebrating our 30th anniversary with my high school best friend, and a few days visiting another best friend’s Mom in Yachats at the Central Oregon Coast before I flew back East for two weeks to see extended family and friends in Denver, Washington D.C., Boston, Cape Cod and Charlotte, plus visit Charleston for my birthday.

In Yachats, my favorite town on the Central Oregon Coast, where I’ve stayed half a dozen times or more, I visited my favorite grotto. From an obscure pull-off, there is a tiny trail down to a clearing within a sacred circle of trees with log benches and a statue of an indigenous woman in the middle surrounded by hundreds of offerings—dreamcatchers, knick-knacks, beaded necklaces, cups, shells, trophies, and so much more. As I kneeled before her and prayed for strength, clarity, and presence before my trip East, I realized I didn’t bring anything; I had nothing to offer in return for her blessing. Or did I?

There was a singing bowl filled with bracelets, and so I took off the beaded PRESENCE bracelet that I made for myself on retreat in March, set it in the bowl, and walked away. It felt counterintuitive. To let go of the very thing I was seeking to understand and master. And yet, a few days into my whirlwind trip of seeing 33 people in 8 places in 16 days, I noticed an unexpected sense of peace and clarity.

Yes, I took two weeks off work, but I wasn’t sitting in a cabana by the pool with a Mai Tai in the stereotypical, privileged vision of “vacation.” And yet, I was living the purest kind of presence: No plans, no calendar, no To Do lists, little stuff, and few mementos. Living one moment, one day, one flight at a time.

I could focus all of my attention on the people and places that I rarely see and had traveled so far to connect with and to be with, while they are all healthy and alive—especially my elderly relatives. It didn’t matter whether we saw eye-to-eye on politics, prioritized the same core values, or had any shared interests. Our common ground was our shared history, our bond, and love. This was why I came. I no longer questioned or doubted my ambitious trip, especially when I’m living so lean. I knew it was the right thing to do this summer.

While spending time with my people, I also savored exploring new breweries in Denver and Boston; playing at the playground in D.C. and braiding my friend’s daughter’s hair for the first day of school in Wellesley, Mass.; visiting art galleries in D.C., Rock Hill and Charleston, S.C.; seeing the Mayflower replica and walking the G.R.A.C.E. trail in Plymouth; enjoying one of the best lobster rolls on the Cape at Sesuit Harbor Cafe, an over-priced resort beer at Chatham Bars Inn, and an ice cream cone at Sundae School; bringing flowers to my uncle’s grave; helping my aunts hang their artwork in their homes and studio; playing at the apple orchards and a favorite nature preserve with my cousins; walking around Charleston’s French Quarter; sunbathing on the South Carolina coast, and so much more.

And as soon as I returned from the East Coast after Labor Day, the Universe held me to my promise. My job and housing search picked up like clockwork, and things are quickly falling into place for a fresh start this fall.

“Even with the abundant harvest list, we still feel less pressure in the fall than we do in the spring and summer months. There is a calm in the air, and those heavy feelings that we’ve been carrying around in our chests all year begin to lift,” wrote Parkdale, Ore., farmer and blogger Andrea Bemis in her seasonal cookbook, Dishing Up the Dirt.

The calm that comes as the sun starts to set, and we know rest is near.

The awe when we stop and really watch the sun set.

When we stop and are alive with what’s alive around us.

So that we might fall forward, not back.

May you be present this week.

Love,

Jules

P.S. Since I’m not a travel blogger, and there would be 100+ links above, please search for any place you’re curious to know more about in your favorite browser, or comment below, and I’ll reply with a link! 🤓

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When I was laid off from my last corporate job way back in July 2021, I knew I was once again at a crossroads. While of course there were endless possibilities, I was in survival mode, and my mind was seeing everything in black and white: Maintain my status quo by desperately applying to six-figure jobs to stay the course I was on and keep my fancy studio apartment. Or give up the apartment, the new career, that lifestyle, and follow another path.

Back to nature and to my creative self.

A longing I’d held onto for, well, forever.

The path led me out of my hometown and homestate altogether. Before I left—and right after the spring equinox in 2022—one of my best friends visited for a “Best of Oregon tour” as I called our itinerary. We bopped around our favorite spots in Portland; in Yachats at the Oregon Coast; in Hood River & White Salmon on the Columbia River Gorge; and at Breitenbush Hot Springs near Central Oregon. During our day of soaking at Breitenbush, I bought a postcard of a hand touching the surface of a deep, dark pool of healing water reflecting the blue skies while nestled in the meadow, beside the river, and fed by the source.

I also visited my other favorite places, including Bend, Mount Hood and Manzanita at the Oregon Coast before I left. While I sat on the beach beside the lapping tides of Grandmother Ocean, I wrote the postcard to myself with an inspiring poem. A month later, after weeks on the road cross-country and when I was just a few days from my destination in New York, I mailed the postcard to welcome and encourage myself on this new path. When I arrived, I immediately knew this was not my place, these were not my people, this was not my lifestyle—and I had given up so much of what I did love in the process of getting here.

But I also knew that for some reason—probably many—I needed to be there.

At the end of the summer and just a few days before my 40th birthday, I met with Omega’s staff astrologer to hear his reading of my natal chart and the coming year after my birthday—yes, this retreat center had a dedicated astrologer to give the staff free sessions. I furiously scribbled notes in my journal, especially the dates he shared, going beyond the next year all the way into 2025 and 2029. It’s all interpretative, like a horoscope, but I was surprised at how much he said felt true to me and my life, even though we barely knew each other. The next year was as tumultuous as he’d foreseen, but once it was over and I’d moved onto another journal, I forgot all about it.

Until this spring.

That came in roaring like a lion, followed by the rest of the pride this summer.

Everything I’d been working through over the past few years was starting to roar for attention. A tiny bell rang in my head when my spiritual director and I set the date to retreat together in person, instead of meeting over Zoom, on July 1. I immediately saw that mint-colored journal covered in elephants and stars, and the beige natural pulp pages of notes from the astrology session. Sure enough, as I leafed through the pages and read my notes, the date jumped out at me:

Well, I had to Google that.

Google AI said: “Uranus, the planet of change, rebellion, and the future, takes roughly 84 years to orbit the Sun. When it's in opposition to its position at your birth, it marks the midpoint of your life, hence the association with midlife. The Uranus Opposition is a significant astrological transit, often associated with a midlife crisis, occurring roughly between the ages of 38 and 46…that is a powerful period of self-discovery and reinvention, a chance to shed old patterns and embrace a more authentic and fulfilling path. Oppositions always highlight relationships, so expect potential shifts in how you connect with others and how you relate to your own individuality. This transit can bring about a strong urge to break free from constraints and re-evaluate your life's purpose, leading to major shifts in career, relationships, or living situations.”

Huh. That all checked out. And, reminded me of what I’d experienced when I was 26 through 29 years old during what I was told was my Saturn Return.

So, I clicked further.

Google AI said: “Saturn is the planet of responsibility, structure, and boundaries. During a Saturn Return, you may face increased responsibilities, experience challenges related to career, relationships, or personal identity, and be forced to confront areas where you've been avoiding growth. Despite the challenges, a Saturn Return is also a time of significant transformation and growth. It can lead to greater self-awareness, clarity about your true desires, and the ability to set boundaries and make choices that align with your authentic self.”

Very interesting. And apparently, astrologists believe there are three major transits in one’s lifetime. The Saturn Return, the Uranus Opposition, and the Chiron Return, which I’d also never heard of before.

So, I clicked even further.

Google AI said: “Chiron, of course, is not a planet at all, but an asteroid. It was discovered by astronomers in 1977 when it was found to be orbiting the Sun between the planets Saturn and Uranus. Named after a centaur in Greek mythology, Chiron is the “Wounded Healer” because it shows where our deepest wounds lie and how we can most effectively heal others. As Chiron moves through the zodiac, it transits through all twelve signs and houses over the course of approximately 51 years. When it returns to where it was at your birth, you have your Chiron Return. It is a time of true spiritual awakening and significant astrological transit that marks a period of intense self-reflection and healing, particularly concerning core wounds and past traumas. It’s a time to reconcile your humanity with your divinity and to integrate your experiences to find wholeness.”

Now, I’m not certain if our destiny is literally aligned in the stars the day we are born, but the way the Internet and that astrologer described these big life transitions made sense to me. With a few exceptions.

Except I have been breaking free from constraints and re-evaluating my life's purpose—leading to major shifts in career, relationships, living situations and more—for many years now, specifically since that turning point in July, 2021, so it feels more like the middle of my midlife crisis right now rather than the beginning.

And during these past four years, I have been actively exploring responsibility, structure, and boundaries and embracing a more authentic and fulfilling path and healing core wounds and past traumas related to shame, loneliness, and sadness, in order to live a life that feels true to me. I’ve pursued so many longings, only to release them as dreams and ideals that actually no longer serve me. It’s almost as if I’ve been processing elements of all three transits at once.

Lastly, it has felt less like a crisis—a negative event or period of instability and danger occurring with little or no warning—or a “midlife unraveling” as coined by Brené Brown, and much more like a midlife awakening. Or midlife alignment.

According to Brown, “Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go. Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts…Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can’t live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through your veins. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

See beautiful photos from my day at Breitenbush on Instagram.

Since this spring, and especially these past six weeks, I’ve felt the growing pains of going through a growth spurt like a toddler or teenager. I’ve been irritable, impatient, angry, frustrated, tender, and raw from crying. A lot. Hormones could have something to do with it, though I believe I’ve got a ways until I’m perimenopausal.

I know I seem happy and grateful—and I am most of the time—but there are still situations, usually related to family, romance, and friendships, that trigger my core wounds and send me into spirals of uncertainty, anxiety, and doubt. For instance, this is one of the reasons why I’m single, which is something I’m hoping to do differently in the second half of my life.

Sweetheart,
there is no power stronger than the truth—
the willingness to want it, the urgency
to find it, the longing to know it,
even when the truth is something
we’d rather not hear…
Our greatest enemies are always
the ones inside us, especially
when it comes to the truth. Your greatest
gift is your wonder. Let it rope
around you, invite you into
a listening beyond the words.
What is true will always escape.
Still, devote yourself to such listening,
to a practice of circling what is true.
That circling is what will save you.
—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Wonder Woman Writes Back

It’s been humbling to circle back to skills that I thought I’d already learned, like boundaries, listening, forgiveness, expectations, and interdependence, and the ways those show up in behaviors. For instance, knowing what is okay and not okay, giving grace, listening to my intuition, listening, choosing my battles, vulnerability, saying no, asking for help, telling the truth. But, this time around, the lessons feel more advanced and nuanced as I practice honing these skills and expanding my capacity.

Just like my retreat day at Breitenbush Hot Springs on July 1, 2025. “A place to bring life into balance.”

It may have been a coincidence that day was the so-called beginning of my Uranus Opposition, but it sure felt serendipitous as I walked down the swordfern and Douglas Fir-lined path from the parking lot toward the cabins, lodge, sauna, and soaking pools. All was quiet save for a few chirping birds and the faint murmur of Breitenbush River—the heartbeat of this land—flowing from the nearby mountains, through the forest, and past the meadows where the volcanic hot springs boiled from the ground. The damp soil, still laced with burnt charcoal since the last wildfire five years ago, smelled familiar.

This place—Oregon, the Pacific Northwest—where I was born.

This inner path that I’d been walking for so many years.

Back to nature and to my creative self.

Since I have done so much of this inner work by myself, I was so grateful to have the accompaniment of my spiritual director that day, guiding me through healing practices, including the labyrinth and core wound visualizations by the river, and being with me to soak in everything that was coming up. Everything I need to let go of to move forward.

To release my fears and summon the courage to once again say goodbye to the people and places that I’ve called home.

To follow the enchantment that has been calling me deeper into the desert for the past few years.

To explore new possibilities toward a new equilibrium that better provides for myself right now—and for old age.

Let growth be my mission.

Let healing be my reward.

Let freedom be my goal.1

May you listen to your life this week.

Love,

Jules

P.S. If this resonates with you, please don’t write back to me this time, but comment below so we can all relate to each other on the journey.

Mountaineering season is in full swing, so I’ve been been thinking a lot about making attempts and quitting. I’ve climbed three peaks so far, and I’m planning to attempt one—or maybe a few!—more when I’m back from the next month of traveling to the Columbia River Gorge, the Oregon Coast, and the East Coast (Washinton D.C., Boston…

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We started where we left off at Loge, a boutique motel and the midway point in our 30-mile journey, where we enjoyed tea and pastries in their lobby café before our boots and paws hit the pavement.

Yes, pavement, not trail. As we stepped out of the Loge lobby and started walking north we immediately passed a whole new housing development going up right next door that used to be mountain biking trails in a Ponderosa Pine forest a year ago—presumably to house some of the 160,000 residents anticipated by 2050. Due to private property, we had to walk along the paved Haul “Trail” before we cut through Mt. Bachelor Village where we could rejoin the DRT—this was one of the first big developments built in 1970 when Bend’s population was about 14,000 people.

I was only half listening as my two trailmates updated our other REI coworker and her dog—who also joined in last year’s DRT section-hiking project—on the previous day’s highlights because my chronic Iliotibial band (IT) syndrome in my right leg was still as stiff as when I woke up.

I hoped my leg would warm up in the first mile-and-a-half down to the river, but the dull pain in my right outer knee and hip joint was rapidly returning from the day before, and we’d barely started the day’s trek.

It was exciting to see one of my climbing partners waiting for us as we reached the river. We’d been on numerous training hikes, climbed regularly in the gym, and summited Mt. Hood in 2023. He knows I can withstand a lot and don’t give up easily, so he encouraged me to keep going and see what happened.

Our crew of four, plus pup, cruised through these very familiar sections of the river in Bend, barely pausing to take pictures along the bouldery and forested loop then back to pavement near Farewell Bend Park—known by pioneers as a fordable crossing point of the river and thus the original namesake of the town before the U.S. Postal Service shortened it to Bend when the town was incorporated in 1905, according to Wikipedia.

We stopped for a bathroom break at the park where I desperately called my neighbor to see if she could stop by the duplex and get better pain medication from my bathroom on her way to meet up with us. We pushed on along the paved path toward the three famous smoke stacks in the Old Mill District—the former hub of the town’s timber industry and now home to REI Bend—where we ran into a parade of three friends and their four kids on foot, bikes, and scooters. After quickly serenading my twin friends with Happy Birthday and a blueberry muffin, we continued through the historic neighborhoods to the next park.

I was so excited to see two more friends and REI coworkers, including the neighbor who lives three blocks from me, that I beelined through the grass and stepped in dog poo on my way over to hug her and get my meds. No surprise, the six of us coworkers cruising along the river through the heart of town was the rowdiest section of the DRT, including asking one of the protesters that day for a photo opp.

By the time we found a quiet spot to eat lunch and soak our feet and legs in the river, about seven miles in at the halfway point, it was just the three of us again, and some very feisty chipmunks.

See fun photos and videos of DRT: Day 2 on Instagram.

We put our socks and boots back on after a very quick lunch and soak in the river and continued walking downstream from the golf course and toward another newer, high-end development until we came to one of the real-time decisions on the trail that my Dad and I had anticipated as we mapped the route. Well, pavement, not trail.

In the interest of the darker clouds in the distance and making good time we took the more direct route—turning right and crossing the bridge over the river instead of turning left to hike to the DRT’s east side terminus, then having to backtrack before crossing the bridge.

From there, we used our GPS to navigate windy streets and sidewalks through a neighborhood, along a major road, and down through farmlands and deer crossings until we entered the nature reserve on the other side of the river that would have been a subdivision with hundreds of homes; however, a local land grant in 2015 saved the ecosystem for the native plants and animals, and public access.

With a rain shower drifting above us, my pain meds starting to wear off, and some fatigue setting in, we followed the trail directly toward the river and didn’t detour to look at the solstice markers on the overlook. It was such a relief to finally be back in the wild again and walk on soil after about 10 miles of pavement.

The three of us hiked while quietly observing our surroundings. The swish of the breeze through the brush, the creak of the swaying tree branches, the chirping birds bobbing from tree to tree, the pitter patter of the rain on our raincoats. The peace and quiet.

While we were happily surprised from behind by one of our coworkers and her son, who used live tracking via Strava to find us, cheer us on, and walk us to the river, before we entered the home stretch a few miles from Tumalo State Park, for most of the afternoon, we were on our own.

Between the quiet lulls in our conversation and taking pictures, we revisited the question I’d shared the day before from my personal coach—which now seemed like a month ago—What did we want to release to the river during our walk?

See funny “blooper” photos and videos on Instagram.

It was amazing how much this simple question revealed about who we were and who we are becoming. As each of us took turns sharing our answers, it felt less and less like a coincidence that we were on the trail together. Yes, we’re all nature lovers with shared interests, including a desire for outdoorsy adventures and a strong connection to the seasons—which was immediately obvious from our glee in taking “flower selfies” during the first few miles of the DRT.

We also discovered we’re all Virgos, born between August 23 and September 22, sharing many of our Zodiac sign’s signature traits such as striving for excellence in all we do and needing to learn how to balance our high standards with self-compassion and flexibility.

So maybe it wasn’t surprising to learn about our similar challenges and burdens with family connections and a sense of belonging that drives our desire to be in deep community—giving and receiving care through mutual support and shared experience rooted in shared faith, hardship, and the desire for growth. Something we each knew well because we’d experienced it before through a trailrunning group in one gal’s Ohio hometown, at the other gal’s first REI store in California, and within my spiritual women’s group in Portland, Ore.

Hence, saying heck yeah to doing the whole DRT with me.

And so, it seemed that what we wanted to release to the river during our walk was our fears—of attachment, of failure, of expectations—that were holding us back from fully living into our truest selves.

After walking one of the more rugged and beautiful stretches of the river, we arrived at Tumalo State Park and located a special boulder by the river where one of the gals sat a year ago while on vacation and courageously decided to leave her hometown in Ohio and move to Bend, Ore. It was the perfect spot for our closing ritual at the end of the trail.

We pulled the pinecones out of our backpacks and each took turns reading “For Now,” the solstice song I received via email the day before on June 20, 2025, from poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer before tossing our pinecones and releasing our fears into the river.

After our ritual, we made our way over to the Tumalo State Park Campground sign for an official completion photo. Still live tracking our progress via Strava, I walked toward the sign, then off at an angle, did one loop back and then another loop back, forming the shape of a heart.

Our feet hurt, my right leg still throbbed, and we were a little dehydrated and hungry, thus starting to get loopy, but our hearts were full.

When I saw the message that we didn't have a ride into Tumalo as anticipated, thus necessitating another real-time route change that added another mile and a half, we all sighed and shrugged, “So be it,” and just kept walking.

Guess we’d see how far the DRT really goes!

See our route on Day 2 via Strava tracking.

The path kept going downstream alongside the slowly flowing river, under the Highway 20 overpass, all the way into a rural neighborhood on the other side. After a couple of left turns, the gals ran the final few blocks into Tumalo for our celebratory food and beers at The Bite with a couple more friends who joined us later.

We arrived at 3:45 p.m. and victoriously finished our respective Strava tracking at the same moment, somehow clocking in at 15.82 miles, 16.01 miles, and 16.85 miles, respectively. Perhaps my mileage was the highest due to my frequent side quests for photos?

It didn’t matter. This wasn’t just about hiking anymore.

This was a pilgrimage. A long journey of devotion, not to a holy place but in a holy place the entire way, after which the pilgrims return to their daily lives slightly changed. We had learned so much.

I realized from the very beginning: This river was not a place you visit once. This is a sacred place. By walking all 30+ miles straight through end-to-end over a couple of days, I set out to experience the river as a whole—all of its unique, but integrated ecosystems—and better understand how we relate to it.

A place that I now know very well.

The biggest aha was how the wildness of Day 1 was so much gentler on our bodies and spirits, compared to the domesticated, urban development of Day 2 being so much harder. No wonder we are disconnected, seeing the river as a resource or as recreation here for our use, not for our kinship.

But, I also noticed how intimately knowing where we live helps us feel a strong sense of place in the world—no matter how long we live there—so we can be at home in ourselves, especially as we relate to others, and thus able to form deeper relationships with all the other living beings—the plants, animals, minerals, and water that are essential to life on Earth—who also call this place home.

Over a year since my first time, I was back on the DRT celebrating summer solstice on Friday and Saturday, June 20-21 2025, by hiking 30+ miles from the north end of Sunriver through Bend up to Tumalo, and joined by 13 friends, seven kids, and two dogs, including two REI coworkers who went the whole way with me.

There was so much trail magic and so many trail angels along the way—including the donated bandanas, new insoles, route mapping, rides, cookies, candy, hot tubs, aloe vera, pain meds, loaner phone charger, bubbles refill, pre- and post-hike physical therapy, and encouraging text messages of moral support.

They each set out to support me, but in doing so, we supported each other.

What all started as a wild idea grew into a community.

A web of caring people with a common bond of shared values united by a shared experience and connection to this sacred place, including everyone wearing an REI bandana on the trail this year and everyone who section-hiked with me last year, as well as anyone who’s been walking the river with me on the second Tuesday of each month this year.

In a way, this community also includes everyone I’ve ever walked the DRT with—such as my late mentor who took me there for the first time when I visited after she moved to Bend in 2013.

And it includes you: Everyone who’s been reading and scrolling along on the journey since I moved to Bend in spring of 2023, and beyond.

Thank you for being here with me.

May you feel needed this week.

Love,

Jules

P.S. See the whole DRT hike in Google Photos. Photo Credits: Susannah Gingo, Melanie Mitchell, Becky Grebosky, Joe Marquez, and Yung Hae Cho.

Read all posts in the “DRT or Bust” series: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 & Part 8

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My neighbor and former REI coworker stood on the corner of my street with her trunk open, ready to drive me and two other REI coworkers an half hour south of Bend, Ore. to the Sunriver Trailhead to start our pilgrimage—walking downstream alongside the Deschutes River for 30 miles over the next two days.

On the drive down, everybody got acquainted and learned about shared interests, including how two of the gals—not me!—compete in ultramarathons. Our driver was in the final days before her Western States 100-mile race the following week, hence being so willing to support us on the trail.

As we geared up and put on our boots in the parking lot, another car pulled up, and out hopped my friend and former Nike coworker with his dog for another joyful reunion. While we follow each other’s outdoor adventures on Instagram—thus seeing my invitation to hike the DRT—it had been over a year since we’d seen each other in person. He happened to be in Sunriver for the weekend, so he was excited to squeeze in a couple of miles with us before his remote work day.

Before setting out, they quietly gathered around me in a circle with curious eyes. They each extended a hand to receive a pinch of tobacco as an offering to the land we were passing through: May we be blessed to tread lightly and open our hearts to connect with everything around and within us.

With our bright orange REI bandanas on, our Strava tracking started, and our location shared, we waved see you later to our driver, snapped a selfie at the trailhead, and finally stepped onto the trail.

We were immediately in the thick of the forest and no longer on the edge of a suburban resort development built in the 1960s. Red Ponderosa Pine trees, green shrubs, and white wildflowers bordered the narrow soil path as we chatted small talk in a single file until the trail widened to where we could walk side-by-side and I could real talk with my friend and his pup about his new job, kids’ college search, and recent outdoor adventures.

About a mile in, we emerged from the forest with collective oohing and ahhing at the rippling river before us, bordered by dark lava rock, bright green grasses, and the lush coniferous forest pointing up to the clear blue sky. And then we grew quiet.

This was not the spring-fed source of the river, but as the first encounter on our hike, it was also special. This was why we were here.

The headwaters of the Deschutes River are at Little Lava Lake, a natural lake in the Cascade Mountain Range about 10 miles southwest of Mt. Bachelor as the crow flies. The river does a huge U-turn, flowing south into the man-made Crane Prairie Reservoir (circa 1922), then into the man-made Wickiup Reservoir (circa 1949), where it bends in a northeasterly direction past the former WWII military camp turned resort community of Sunriver (circa 1965) and into the city of Bend, about 170 miles from its terminus into the Columbia River. All in all, she flows 252 continuous miles, bringing life to four counties in Oregon, according to Wikipedia.

See fun photos & videos of DRT: Day 1 on Instagram.

After my out-of-town friend turned around at the river, the three of us continued hiking while quietly observing our surroundings. The swish of the breeze through the tall grass, the creak of the swaying tree trunks, the chirping birds bobbing from tree to tree. The peace and quiet.

There was a rustle up ahead on the trail, and I got excited. Was it the next friend to join our path?

Alas, an older man and his dog approached, then stopped to say hi. He was surprised to see us on his serene morning walk, especially geared up for our trek, but seemed delighted to share his daily devotion with fellow nature lovers.

As we walked alongside the winding river, our small talk also turned to real talk, and I shared the question my personal coach had posed during our call a few days before the solstice: What did we want to release to the river during our walk?

On El Camino de Santiago, which he had walked over a decade ago, there are many traditions, including carrying a scallop shell to identify oneself as a fellow pilgrim—like our REI bandanas—and tossing a stone at El Cruz de Ferro, about halfway along the most popular route, to symbolize the pilgrim’s journey thus far. We decided to ponder this question as we walked and kept an eye out for pinecones, instead of rocks, to toss in the river at the end of the trail.

Before we knew it, we descended into the next trailhead’s parking lot just as my Climate Resilience co-organizer’s car drove up the road, waving hello before she and her two kids hopped out to zoom alongside us on their bikes for the next few miles.

The three- and five-year-olds’ joy and silliness were infectious, and we were laughing so loud we didn’t even hear the slowly flowing water turn into rapids practically until we arrived at the head of the waterfall crashing through the deep canyon. Things grew even more rowdy while I was riding the three-year-old’s bike down to the viewing platform and somehow ripped a hole in the knee of my leggings.

The kids went remarkably far, but inevitably petered out and turned around while we continued onward as the hilly trail became flat and the raging river turned into wetlands full of cattails and wild irises. When we stopped to take selfies with wildflowers throughout the morning, we also started decorating each other’s hats with grasses, flowers, and feathers we found along the way.

We made our first pit stop at the next trailhead bathroom, then stopped at my favorite waterfall for our lunch break over halfway to our day’s destination. We each found a spot on the volcanic boulder outcroppings, quietly unpacked our lunches, and munched away. Mesmerized by the persistent and powerful pounding of the river through this canyon—like the heartbeat of this body of water—I remembered my first time here last summer and how it felt like an especially sacred part of the river.

A place where one can feel how ancient the river is and yet always new. Her current course formed by lava flows some 500-1,500 years before the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, “No [woman] ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and [she’s] not the same person.”

Because she is constantly changing. I grasped how this body of water—fed by the source, as well as snow melt and rain, and released through evaporation—was so similar to myself, drinking and sweating to retain equilibrium in my own body of water.

See our route on Day 1 via Strava tracking.

With tummies full of protein and gummy bears, we set back out on the trail as it quickly descended through the canyon, rapids giving way to still waters flowing through the swamp lands again between the forest and the water.

We realized we had been out of service for a couple of hours, so I was surprised to see my phone ringing while I was taking a picture of the quaking aspen trees. A few minutes later, we cheered as our REI coworker came jogging around the corner while cooling down from her training run, then hiked the next mile with us back to her car. It was just the little perk up we needed in our post-lunch lethargy to keep pushing onward.

The river continued shifting between calmness and wildness—and everything in between—as we hiked past churning rapids, a mile-long island made of lava, caves where indigenous hunting parties sheltered, irrigation ponds created by settlers, and eventually huge homes built in the cliffs and down by the shore on private land so we could no longer walk by the river.

Just like the flow of friends coming and going on the trail, our conversation ebbed and flowed between silence and sharing. In the quiet moments, I realized how many miles I would have walked by myself if these coworkers hadn’t joined me.

I would have been the only one to go the whole distance.

As we started to share our thoughts about what we might be ready to release to the river, we learned more about each other. What brought each of us to Bend and to REI? What was keeping us here and where else might we go? When had we felt in deep community with our strongest sense of belonging? What were we scared of letting go, and what else were we longing for?

And every so often in the lull of someone’s deep share, I would bellow my awkward signature burp and we would all burst out giggling.

Mid-afternoon, our driver texted to see if we needed anything. Due to global positioning system (GPS) live tracking on Strava, I was getting down to 10 percent battery left on my phone, so yes, I needed an older iPhone charging cord, and in lieu of that: We needed cookies! Several miles later, we once again rounded a bend and cheered when we saw her sitting on the sandy shore of the river holding up a baggie of chocolate chip cookies, which we promptly devoured.

As we hiked away from the river into the more arid desert forest, the warmer temperatures caused my sweat to start making my crisply sunburned stomach blister. And the further we went my chronic Iliotibial band (IT) syndrome flared up—as the overused muscle that runs down the outside of my leg constricts, it creates a constant, dull pain in my right outer knee and hip joints—so catching up with my friend about her ultramarathon training, new job, and housing search since she left REI a few months ago was a very welcome distraction over the last couple of miles for the day.

With the increasing fatigue and discomfort, it was harder to notice all the beauty around us, but we still cried out in awe and took pictures when something special caught our eyes. A woodpecker, a bright yellow wildflower, a trail sign showing just how close we were.

Once we arrived at her car parked at Loge, a boutique chain of motels and the mid-way point in our journey, our driver pulled out more candy that we gratefully gobbled down while taking off our sweaty socks and boots and switching into what we’d left in her car that morning. Some 15 miles from where we started our day—the first official day of summer—it was time for some well-earned beers, a quick soak, a big meal, and then a long rest before we completed the second half of our pilgrimage the following day.

May you go the distance this week.

Love,

Jules

P.S. See the whole DRT hike in Google Photos. Photo Credits: Susannah Gingo, Melanie Mitchell, Becky Grebosky, Joe Marquez, and Yung Hae Cho.

Read all posts in the “DRT or Bust” series: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 & Part 8

Read more